Symposium’s anthologies may strike some listeners as peculiar, a combination of largely unknown (to most classical listeners) performers in very archival sound. But for those who find vintage singers and recordings a strong draw—among whom I number myself—each album is like a tray of dessert chocolates. Every selection holds its own distinct promise, and you really wish you could sample the lot, cholesterol overload be damned. Fortunately, you can try one of these anthologies without doing damage to your arteries, a fact that makes Symposium a healthier bet than any four-star French restaurant you care to name.

This one has its share of curiosities. Kirsten Flagstad-Hall is, of course, Flagstad at the beginning of her lengthy career, in 1913. You may doubt the acoustical origins of the record, after sampling the glorious richness of that voice in the Grieg, but that’s in large part due to her willingness to give her full-throated all with exemplary legato. Rosenfeld’s Ingalill is a lesser proposition, but the refrain shows Flagstad magically lightening her tone.

Then there is Walter Widdop, an English oratorio singer whose Sound an Alarm was an annual feature on my old holidays opera show on radio, years ago. There’s no aural delicacy about his sound, or emotional display, but plenty of exemplary diction, fine vocal production, and wonderful trumpet-like metal. Manson’s A Birthday, not surprisingly, doesn’t come off—what ever possessed the clarion-voiced Widdop to sing a song that starts “My heart is like a singing bird/whose nest is in a water chute”? (Pronounced “singing a-bird” in his traditionalist approach.) Yet there is a surprising modulation of approach in Clutsam’s sentimental “I know of two bright eyes.” There’s no denying the success of Widdop’s attempt to reduce his vocal heft and inject intimacy and warmth into his efforts, despite a climactic call to “Mira, O Mira!” that does in fact blast the house. Poor Mira—I hope she escaped without bleeding from her ears.

Madame Charles-Cahier (who preferred not to be known by her birth name of Sarah Jane Walker) shows worn resources and considerable art. (Perhaps her Carmen Habanera snuck into this group because it’s the best of her lot.) A pupil of de Reszke, she also taught Marian Anderson, Rosette Anday, and Göta Ljunberg. Plançon is charming in his group of songs recorded in June of 1903—how else? His French enunciation is immaculate, and his cello-like tone displayed to greatest advantage in Bemberg’s Soupir. Brodersen is the most natural Lieder singer in the group, attentive to detail—lovingly so in the final “so mannche Nacht, in alter Zeit?” of Schubert’s Der Doppengänger, despite some forcing of tone and ugly vowels, elsewhere.

Frieda Hempel was 50 at the time of her pair of recordings, here, but aside from some shortness of breath and occasionally attenuated tone there’s little to show of age. Instead, she makes a number of intelligent points. Dark-voiced Ivar Andrésen’s 1929 Ruhe meine Seele shows him in better vocal estate than his later Wagnerian recordings, with their wide vibrato. It is a splendid rendition, despite some opaque tone in the louder passages that may have been a harbinger of what was to come. Madeleine Grey in Ravel is a match, of course: a perfect meld of temperament, dark tone, intellectual analysis, and fidelity. I’m only surprised that something more rare hadn’t been selected for inclusion.

That’s true, in general. All save one of these singers were popular during their lifetimes and made records that have remained so with collectors, to this day. The exception is Diane van Demmelen (or Dommelen; there’s some uncertainty). Not only didn’t I know who she was before listening to this release, I still have no idea. The knowledgeable liner notes admit to a similar condition, suggesting that she was “probably a gifted amateur, perhaps a pupil of Blanche Marchesi in London.” Her voice on the 1933/34 private recording issued here is a pure soprano with a fast vibrato, and a schematic approach to interpretation. Nana is sung with good dynamics and breath control, as well as a curiously sexless, even inhuman, tone.

The recordings understandably vary in quality, some being worn (like the very rare Plançon G & Ts), while others, such as Andrésen and Hempel, are in truly fine shape. As in past Symposium releases, no attempt is made to filter the original sound. The liner numbers are brief paragraphs about each singer, with a second one on Grey unfortunately out of order and placed after Hempel.

There are some real joys to be had on this new album, and none of the portamento or heavy-handed treatments found in quite a few song recordings of 80 or more years ago. Definitely for collectors, but this album also holds pleasures for those who have enjoyed the opera side of Plançon, Hempel, Flagstad, Brodersen, or Andrésen, and want to try something else. You won’t be disappointed.

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